The entrance to the cave was hidden, swallowed by the thick, gnarled roots of ancient trees that seemed to claw at the earth, as if trying to keep whatever lay inside buried forever. The air around it was unnaturally still—no wind, no birdsong, no rustling leaves—only silence. It was as if the world itself refused to acknowledge what lurked within.

  Stepping inside was like crossing into another world. The cave walls, rough and jagged, bore strange markings, old symbols carved deep into the stone—some faded with time, others still fresh, as if someone had added them not long ago. A faint glow pulsed from some of them, casting eerie shadows that twisted and stretched like living things.

  The deeper one went, the colder it became—not the natural chill of underground stone, but something far more unnatural. The air was heavy, thick with an unseen force pressing down on the chest, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. Every footstep echoed, not just once, but twice—like something unseen was walking alongside those who entered.

  A man stood near a row of flickering golden candles, their flames steady despite the oppressive darkness pressing in from all sides. His cloak was long and tattered, its edges dragging against the cold ground. His face, hidden beneath the hood, remained unreadable as his voice echoed through the cavern.

  “Welcome.”

  A group of figures, cloaked in shadows, stood before him, their faces partially illuminated by the dim candlelight. Some of them hesitated, shifting uncomfortably.

  “I shall tell you the truth about this world. His voice was smooth, deliberate, carrying an undeniable weight. The history you have been taught is a lie. The royals have hidden the truth from you. “

  Murmurs spread through the gathered figures. One of them stepped forward.

  “What do you mean?”

  The man raised his hand, and the flames flickered higher, casting jagged shadows against the walls.

  “The towns you live in are not real. They are illusions, created by the king to keep you docile, to make you believe in a false peace. But the truth? This world is cursed.”

  Someone inhaled sharply.

  “The Arcanors… one of them whispered”.

  The hooded man nodded. “Yes. They are real. Hiding in the darkness, waiting.”

  A younger voice, filled with doubt, broke the silence. “But the king… wasn’t he protecting us?”

  “No.” The man’s voice turned cold. “The king is a coward, a liar. He fears what he does not understand, so he keeps you blind. But don’t worry. He extended his arms. We are the protectors of this world. We are Daimyojin.”

  Their voices rose in unison, a chant filling the cave, shaking the very air.

  “We are Daimyojin!”

  **

  Shun sat near the fire, sharpening his dagger, though his hands barely moved. His mind was elsewhere, thoughts heavy, swirling like a storm. Across from him, Rakk leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. The firelight flickered across his sharp features.

  Rakk: You’re restless.

  Shun: (not looking up) I don’t sleep well.

  Rakk: (raising an eyebrow) That’s not it. You’re carrying something heavier than lack of sleep.

  Shun: (scoffing) Aren’t we all?

  Rakk said nothing. He simply watched, waiting. Eventually, Shun let out a slow exhale and stopped sharpening the blade. His eyes, dark with something unreadable, locked onto the fire.

  Shun: My father… he wasn’t always the man I killed. He used to be different. Or maybe I just wanted to believe that.

  Rakk leaned forward slightly, listening.

  Shun: He was a soldier once. A good one. He fought in the border wars, where men lived and died by their instincts. He survived battles that swallowed entire armies. And when he came home… he brought the war with him.

  Rakk: (quietly) War changes men.

  Shun: (bitterly) Yeah. It made him a monster.

  His grip on the dagger tightened.

  Shun: He thought the only way to raise strong sons was through discipline. But his idea of discipline was beatings, humiliation, and fear. To him, love was weakness, and kindness was a disease. My mother… she didn’t stop him. She encouraged it. And Fiol… he was just a child. He didn’t deserve any of it.

  Rakk’s gaze never wavered. The flames cast flickering shadows over his unreadable expression.

  Rakk: And the night you killed him?

  Shun’s breath hitched slightly, his fingers going rigid against the handle of the dagger.

  Shun: That night… was different. He was going to sell Fiol. Said he wasn’t worth feeding anymore. That he was ‘too soft’ to be of any use. I was tied to a chair, forced to watch. And then—you offered me a way out.

  Shun turned his head, meeting Rakk’s gaze for the first time.

  Shun: Rakk… why did you bring me here?

  Rakk’s eyes gleamed in the dim firelight.

  Rakk: You heard it, didn’t you? This world is cursed. The royals, the Arcanors—they have used people for generations. I saved you because you are going to change that. You are one of the prophesied.

  Shun frowned.

  Shun: A prophecy?

  Rakk: (softly reciting) He shall come. He who lived a thousand years ago. S shall return.

  Shun’s expression hardened.

  Shun: How can you be sure it’s me?

  Rakk’s lips curled into a knowing smirk.

  Rakk: You are just a candidate. There are thirteen in total. Eight have already been identified. The Aetherblades possess four. We possess four.

  Shun’s jaw tightened.

  Shun: What are the Aetherblades?

  Rakk: (calmly) Slayers. Warriors independent of the royals. But some of their ranks are infiltrated by royal influence. They are not entirely free.

  Shun absorbed the words, but there was something else gnawing at his mind.

  Shun: And Shinjiro?

  For the first time, Rakk hesitated. Then, he sighed.

  Rakk: I dropped him somewhere.

  Shun’s body stiffened.

  Shun: What do you mean?

  Rakk tilted his head.

  Rakk: I was certain I stopped time when I teleported. But your friend… moved toward us at the last second. He got pulled in.

  Shun’s heart pounded.

  Shun: Then… he must be nearby.

  Rakk: (firmly) Yes. But you can’t meet him.

  Shun’s fingers curled into fists.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  But before he could respond, the distant sound of a horn echoed through the cave. A warning. Something was coming.

  **

  The air was thick with the stench of rusted iron and damp stone, a suffocating weight pressing against the lungs. The underground prison was carved deep beneath the city, its walls uneven and jagged, as if they had been torn into existence rather than built. Torches lined the narrow corridors, their weak flames barely holding back the oppressive darkness. Every few moments, the dim light flickered, casting distorted shadows that twisted and stretched across the damp walls.

  The cells were nothing more than crude iron bars jammed into stone, their metal rusted from years of moisture and blood. Some prisoners sat hunched in the corners of their cells, too broken to care about the outside world. Others watched silently, their eyes filled with something between suspicion and hunger, like wolves sizing up wounded prey. Somewhere in the distance, the slow, steady drip of water echoed endlessly, filling the silence like a heartbeat.

  Near the farthest cell, a boy lay crumpled on the cold floor, his wrists and ankles bound by heavy chains. His breathing was slow, labored, the shallow rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life. His clothes were torn, dirtied from the rough stone beneath him.

  Shinjiro.

  A sharp voice cut through the silence.

  Man 1: Hirako-sir! He’s still unconscious.

  A pair of heavy boots scraped against the floor as an older man approached, his silhouette looming over the dimly lit cell. Hirako stood at the bars, his dark eyes unreadable.

  Hirako: Wake him up.

  The guard obeyed without hesitation, grabbing a wooden bucket filled with stale, freezing water. With a sharp motion, he flung it forward, the water splashing onto Shinjiro’s face and soaking his torn clothes.

  Shinjiro jolted awake, gasping, his body trembling from the sudden chill. His vision blurred before slowly focusing on the figure standing outside his cell. He groaned, shifting uncomfortably against the stone floor, his limbs aching from the restraints.

  Shinjiro: (weakly) Where... am I?

  Hirako crouched down, resting his arms over his knees as he peered at the boy with quiet calculation.

  Hirako: I am Hirako of the Royal Capital.

  Shinjiro blinked rapidly, trying to push through the fog in his mind. His body ached, but a sharper fear clawed at his chest.

  Shinjiro: (voice cracking) Where is Shun?

  Hirako’s gaze didn’t waver. He tilted his head slightly, observing.

  Hirako: Are you a spy?

  Shinjiro’s mind reeled at the accusation. Spy? His breath hitched.

  Shinjiro: (shaking his head) No. Why am I here?

  Hirako didn’t answer. Instead, he gave a slight nod to the guard.

  Hirako: Break his bones.

  Before Shinjiro could react, a sharp pain exploded through his leg.

  Crack.

  The baton struck his shin with brutal force. Shinjiro screamed, his body convulsing from the sheer agony. His head slammed against the stone, vision darkening for a moment. A raw, animalistic cry tore from his throat.

  Shinjiro: (screaming) AARRGH—!!!

  His body trembled violently, hands clawing at the chains around his wrists. The pain was unbearable, his mind barely able to process it. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving.

  Hirako remained still, watching.

  Hirako: (calmly) Talk.

  Shinjiro’s face was soaked in sweat. His pulse pounded in his ears.

  Shinjiro: (whimpering) Why... why are you doing this?

  Hirako: Because you haven’t told me what I need to know.

  Shinjiro’s body convulsed as another wave of pain shot through his leg. He gritted his teeth, his nails digging into his palms.

  Shinjiro: (crying) I don’t know anything! I swear! Please stop!

  Hirako’s expression didn’t change.

  Hirako: We found you outside the capital. You have no identity. You are either a spy of Daimyojin... or a runaway slave.

  Shinjiro’s chest tightened.

  Shinjiro: (desperate) I am not a spy! I promise! I am not a slave either!

  For the first time, Hirako’s expression shifted. His gaze flickered, unreadable. He exhaled quietly before speaking.

  Hirako: I hope you’re not lying.

  One of the guards scoffed.

  Man 1: (disinterested) You’ve gone soft, sir.

  Hirako’s fingers twitched, but his gaze remained on Shinjiro.

  Hirako: He screamed too loudly. He has never had his bones broken before.

  Shinjiro panted, sweat dripping from his chin.

  Hirako: He can’t be a spy.

  A new set of footsteps echoed through the corridor. Another figure entered the cell block, carrying a sealed document.

  Man 2: (grimly) An order from the royal capital.

  Hirako turned to face him, his brow furrowing.

  Hirako: What is it?

  The man handed him the document.

  Man 2: The spy we captured months ago will be identifying him.

  Hirako’s grip tightened on the parchment. He turned back toward Shinjiro.

  Hirako: Very well. Bring him with me.

  The prison doors groaned as they were pulled open. The damp air inside clung to Shinjiro’s skin as he was dragged through the corridors, his broken leg barely able to move. Every step sent white-hot agony shooting through him, but he forced himself to stay upright.

  They stopped before a cell. The iron bars separated him from an old prisoner with sunken eyes and a gaunt frame. The man’s face was twisted in something between amusement and calculation.

  Man 1: Open it!

  A guard unlocked the cell.

  Man 1: Wake up! Hirako-sir is here!

  The prisoner sat up slowly, his cracked lips curling into a thin smile.

  Prisoner: (hoarse) Hirako-officer... what a surprise.

  Hirako stepped forward, his tone unreadable.

  Hirako: Do you know this boy?

  The prisoner’s eyes flickered toward Shinjiro. For a moment, his gaze lingered. Then, his smirk widened.

  Prisoner: (mocking) Yes. I know him. Jin... it’s been a while.

  Shinjiro stiffened.

  Shinjiro: (shocked) What...?

  The prisoner leaned against the bars.

  Prisoner: He’s one of us. Trained well. A liar, just like the rest of us.

  Shinjiro’s pulse roared in his ears.

  Shinjiro: (angry) You’re lying! I don’t know you!

  Hirako’s expression darkened.

  Prisoner: (smirking) He’s good, isn’t he? They train these kids well. Make them believe their own innocence. But I remember. He was involved in the fire breakout six months ago.

  Shinjiro’s blood turned to ice.

  Shinjiro: (screaming) Shut up! You’re lying!

  Hirako lunged, slamming Shinjiro against the cold stone.

  Hirako: (furious) You devil... just because you are a child, I was easy on you.

  Shinjiro gasped, struggling against the pressure.

  Shinjiro: (crying) I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING! I SWEAR!

  The prisoner chuckled.

  Prisoner: No need to struggle, boy. Fate already decided for you.

  Hirako’s grip tightened.

  Hirako: Take him away.

  Shinjiro’s screams echoed through the halls.

  The prison air was colder now. Or maybe it was just Shinjiro. His body trembled, his breathing uneven as the guards dragged him back through the endless stone corridors. The pain in his broken leg was unbearable, every step sending waves of agony up his spine. His wrists ached from the iron restraints, the rough edges digging into his skin.

  His mind screamed at him to fight, to resist, but his body had long since given up.

  Shinjiro: (weakly) I... didn’t do anything...

  The guards ignored him.

  When they reached the central chamber, the heavy wooden doors creaked open, revealing a small, dimly lit hall. The flickering torchlight revealed two new figures standing inside. One was a woman dressed in dark armor, her piercing gaze scanning Shinjiro like a hawk watching prey. The other was a tall man dressed in deep crimson robes, his presence suffocating, his cold expression unreadable.

  Kaede: (eyes narrowing) So this is the one?

  Hirako stepped inside behind Shinjiro, his face carefully blank.

  Hirako: Yes.

  The man in crimson robes turned slightly, revealing his face beneath the hood. A thin scar ran from the edge of his eye down to his jaw, giving him a permanently calculating expression. He did not look at Shinjiro, only at Hirako.

  Damian: This is the accused?

  Hirako nodded.

  Damian: Confirmed by the prisoner?

  Hirako: Yes.

  A pause. Damian finally turned his gaze toward Shinjiro.

  Shinjiro felt something in the air shift—something unseen, pressing against his chest. It was as if the man’s gaze alone could suffocate him. His breath hitched, and for the first time, a new kind of fear set in. This man wasn’t just another officer. He was something worse.

  Damian: (slowly) What a shame.

  Shinjiro swallowed hard.

  Shinjiro: (hoarse) I-I swear I’m not a spy.

  Damian’s lips barely moved.

  Damian: They all say that.

  Kaede crossed her arms.

  Kaede: There’s no need for further discussion. The royal capital has given orders.

  Shinjiro’s heart pounded against his ribs.

  Shinjiro: (desperate) What orders?

  Damian turned, his robe flowing behind him as he stepped closer. The torches flickered, casting long shadows over his face.

  Damian: (calmly) You are to be executed.

  The world stopped.

  Shinjiro’s breath caught in his throat, his entire body going rigid.

  Shinjiro: (shaking) N-no... No! You can’t!

  Hirako flinched slightly at the sheer terror in the boy’s voice.

  Shinjiro: (screaming) I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING! PLEASE, I’M INNOCENT!

  Damian merely sighed, like a man growing tired of the same conversation.

  Damian: That is no longer relevant.

  Shinjiro thrashed against his restraints, his body moving on sheer survival instinct. The guards tightened their grips, forcing him to his knees. His broken leg buckled beneath him, sending white-hot pain through his entire body. He gasped, his vision blurring.

  Shinjiro: (pleading) Please... someone... believe me...

  Hirako was silent.

  Kaede’s face was emotionless.

  And Damian simply turned away.

  Damian: Throw him into the valley.

  Shinjiro’s body locked up.

  Night had fallen. The torches flickered dimly in the underground prison, casting long shadows along the walls. Shinjiro lay curled in the corner of his cell, his body shaking with exhaustion and pain.

  Hirako stood outside the iron bars, watching him.

  The boy hadn’t spoken in hours. He hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t begged.

  He had given up.

  Hirako exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple.

  Hirako: Damn it, kid...

  His voice was quieter than usual. Almost reluctant.

  Shinjiro didn’t move. He just stared at the damp stone floor, as if nothing in the world mattered anymore.

  Hirako: You’re not even gonna try?

  Still, no response.

  Hirako clenched his jaw.

  Hirako: You’ve been screaming about your innocence this whole time. Now you’re just lying there, waiting to die?

  Shinjiro’s fingers twitched. A faint, bitter chuckle escaped his lips.

  Shinjiro: (weakly) What’s the point?

  Hirako: (quietly) You tell me.

  Silence stretched between them.

  Then—slowly—Shinjiro lifted his head. His face was pale, his eyes hollow, but there was something else in them now. Something sharp.

  Shinjiro: Are you here to mock me?

  Hirako: No.

  The older man crouched down, resting his arms on his knees. His voice dropped lower, almost cautious.

  Hirako: Listen to me, kid. The royals want you dead. Damian wants you dead. That’s not changing. But I need to know something before you go.

  Shinjiro blinked slowly.

  Shinjiro: ...What?

  Hirako: (serious) Did you do it?

  Shinjiro flinched, his fingers clenching into weak fists.

  Shinjiro: I—

  Hirako: Don’t lie. Don’t try to convince me. Just tell me the truth.

  Shinjiro stared at him. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

  Then, finally—

  Shinjiro: No.

  Hirako exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair.

  Hirako: That’s what I thought.

  He stood up, brushing dust off his coat.

  Shinjiro: (whispering) So... what now?

  Hirako didn’t answer. He turned away, walking toward the prison exit.

  But just before stepping into the darkness, he paused.

  Hirako: (low voice) Survive.

  Then he was gone.

  Shinjiro sat there, his heart pounding.

  For the first time since his capture…

  He had hope.